Wrote this for an English exam practice and thought I'd post it, see what you guys thought. I can't remember what fic it was that gave me the inspiration for this but thank-you and I hope I didn't copy too much.

Gone

He's gone. I still can't believe that he's gone and it's been three years now. He left me, a widow after only six months of marriage, with a baby on the way and his son to look after as well when Rebecca died so suddenly. I think I'd better start at the beginning as I am sure that this does not make a lot of sense right now.

January 2009

We'd been going out, officially, for six months (Ange says that we'd been "unofficially" dating for four years but we were just too blind to see it) when he proposed. I was surprised to say the least, because he knows – knew – my views on marriage very well, I'd mentioned them often and emphatically enough over the years! I then shocked myself by saying yes! I didn't try to analyse it, didn't try to rationalise my decision, I just put my brain in neutral and my heart in overdrive and agreed. I loved him then (if I'm honest with myself I've loved him since before I knew what love was), still do, which is probably the reason it hurts so damn much! It's like there is a boulder sitting on my chest slowing crushing any attempt to breathe, making each breath I take excruciatingly painful.

We were married by the end of the month (I think he was afraid I'd change my mind), it was a beautiful ceremony, Ange organised everything and she really out-did herself this time. I cried, he cried, Ange and Jack cried, even my Dad, the hardened criminal, cried!

A couple of months after the wedding, we found out that I was expecting. He was so happy! The way his face lit up, like a little kid at Christmas time! It made the whole world brighter. But now, it as if all the light in the world was snuffed out when he was. But I digress.

A couple of weeks after we found out about the baby, he was deployed to Iraq. Even though he was honourably discharged, he can – could – still be called up for active duty. I begged (me, the rational – I – can – compartmentalise – anything – forensic – anthropologist, I blame the hormones) him not to go.

"Think of the baby," I pleaded.

"I am," was his reply. "I need to do this, for her."

"But what if…" I couldn't finish that sentence; the thought was too horrible to contemplate.

"I will always come back for you love, always," he said softly.

He kissed me gently on the lips then, and left. I prayed (yes, I prayed) that he would come back to me, that he would come home. I guess his God does not listen or care after all.

They came a month later. That knock. The knock I had been dreading since the day he left. I opened the door, hoping against hope, that it was the mailman but I knew in my heart that he was not coming back. They were standing there, hats off, looking sympathetic, and I crumpled.

"No," I breathed, clutching the doorframe. "Please, God no!"

"I'm very sorry for your loss ma'am but…"

I couldn't bear to have it confirmed out loud and my consciousness fled, wailing.

It was just shock after shock after that. I refused, again, to go to the funeral. Ange, again, made me, said it would help. It didn't. It hurt the same, if not more than the first time, because this time I knew he would not be coming back. I had not been there! I cannot help but think that if only I had been there, this never would have happened! Why? Why does everyone I love leave me? He promised he wouldn't but he did!

About two weeks after the funeral, Rebecca died in that car accident. It was stupid really. A drunk driver ran a red light and careened into her as she was turning the corner. She never stood a chance. I, as the closest (was his stepmother really the closest relative they could find? What about Rebecca's parents?) living relative got Parker. He is such a sweet child but his eyes. Oh God, his eyes look out at me from that boy's face. It is almost too much some days.

I am grateful for small miracles. Little Emily Christine has my eyes. She still looks a lot heartbreakingly like him but at least she has my eyes. I think I would crack into such tiny pieces that no-one would ever be able to put them back together again if I had to see both children look at me, pleading with his eyes.

They say that time heals all wounds. They are wrong. The pain is too deep, too great, too all encompassing to disappear, even become bearable, even with all the time in the world.

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